Friday, March 16, 2018

(entièrement de ne pas entre nous)

Sometimes, not often, I’ve said this before but this time i really mean it. Ya gotta watch - listen to the vid. It really comes alive when you hear it.

(entièrement de ne pas entre nous)
Thanks but I won’t be attending. 
I’m afraid I can’t, at the brink of the age of 67, 
find much interest or purpose in what amounts for me 
to paying transmogrified homage to having navigated 
the fleet blur of four years of late adolescence near 50 
years ago (with people I now mostly barely
recall) to jump, as if I couldn't 
imagine anything more fun to do,
into a tug of war with other ‘classes’ 
(encouraged to behave like competing 
intramural teams) similarly engaged 
in what for the college is surely 
the motive force: to see what 
clutch of alumni donates the most dollar signs
to it. I don’t begrudge them this. Colleges
need lots of dough. And I’m graced
with the riches of unfathomed bliss
of a life in New York, skidding thrillingly
over the thinnest thin surfaces of a “fixed income” –

so fixed it has rendered me cleanly unable
to fit any niche which depended on
spending more than would
procure me a split,
grilled kielbasa, boiled sour-
cream-dabbed pierogi, Ukrainian
sauerkraut (misnomered: it’s a bit sweet)
at Odessa (at 7th street, Avenue A). In the odd way 

I register lessons from life, though, I have to confess
that the high-handed forced shrill-toned snark which
slits under and into these over-wrought lines –
(oh do beware markedly visual strict-driven
grids clamped on "writing":  as deadly
a march through the desert as college P.R.) –
bear the un-pretty tracks of defense scared of threat.
It resides in the fact I suspect I must here to the point
now espouse - I don’t like Christmas for just the same
reason I dislike the press of a college besieging us all
to love it. They're for people who barbecue chicken 
and make love to those of the Alien Sex. 
People with children.
I neither barbecue nor much like to fuck, but 
I very much warm to, indeed am by rep held 
by those with legitimate claims to a firsthand 
experience, as a candidate rather more likely
than not to be placed at the head (the word
pointedly used) of the queue of things having
to do with the come-hither faux-pouty moue 
of the Mouth. 
From here it goes South –
as shall I go mid-May, 
for a scatter of days, far away 
from collegiate maneuvers,
august weights and measures –
to quite other pleasures: 
to go,
oh to go! 
go to, oh! - 
where what I will do
my sly eye apperceives
(entièrement de ne pas
entre nous)
I won’t tell anyone (not even vous
nor even the who whom I'll be apperceiving -
and who anyway needs no apprising of any 
uprising, re-sizing, down-sizing or moue.
People don’t speak French in Mexico, Joe.
You forgot to learn Spanish, you twit.”
(Oh, shit.)


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